


discovering you

by roommate



Category: SHINee
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-30 00:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12096291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roommate/pseuds/roommate
Summary: Minho takes off two things during his modeling stint with Boa — his robe, and maybe that thin veil of indifference to the people drawing him when he spots a really cute guy staring,watching him.





	discovering you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jinrou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinrou/gifts).
  * Inspired by [your body's a masterpiece and i'm going to honour it the only way i know how](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10467975) by [jinrou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinrou/pseuds/jinrou). 



This isn't the first time Minho will be stripping in front of a crowd. He'd stopped counting after the twentieth, but then that doesn't mean he's gotten any more comfortable wearing nothing but just his skin while stretching out in front of some fifteen, twenty people, putting every inch of him on display. Modeling in front of everyone is _easy_ — the fastest way to get rid of the nerves is by making goofy faces at the camera just before he has to slip into a different skin and become some renowned underwear model — but baring everything to people he doesn't know, much more care about?

He laughs to himself. You'd think that three years of serving as every single art student's subject for drawings during anatomy class for a living would make it a lot easier for him to just undo the knot of his robes without fumbling with the ropes for a good five seconds or so, but _nope_ — it still feels like the very first time he was invited by a friend to pose as a subject for his painting. Every stint feels like the first time he'd pulled his shirt over his head so that someone could let his gaze roam across his skin and immortalize the contours of his body in a simple sketch and _not_ so he could slip inside the bathroom already to take a nice, cold shower at the height of summer. Have him wear the skimpiest of clothes while facing the camera and it's _fine,_ it's alright, everything's _dandy_ because parts of him are still covered, but take the clothes out of the equation and everything changes. _Drastically._

He yanks at the ribbon, anyway, and lets his bathrobe pool at his ankles. Bends his knees a little, too, reaching for the robe and folding it neatly before making himself comfortable on the table in front of him the way he always would in all the times he'd modeled for Boa's class. He's done this enough times to be able to write a book on preparing oneself for modeling for any and all human drawing classes, but he won't deny he still gets a bit _queasy_ whenever he starts feeling eyes on him as he arranges himself on the table — stretches out, props himself against his arms, and tilts his head back not to entice but to ease the budding tension in his nape.

 _Go get a massage after this. Or go for a hot bath. Yeah, that would be nice,_ hums a voice in his head. He files the thought for another day. _Or fine, just grab yourself a nice cup of coffee or something. None of those instant stuff anymore, Minho. None of those—_

"Hey, thanks for coming on such short notice. You really saved my ass," comes Boa's voice now, soft, a bit exasperated, kind of leaning on the 'relieved' side of the spectrum if the way the corners of her mouth curl up in accord is anything to go by. "Tell your friend Siwon my fist says _hi._ " She gives Minho's a quick hug, arms barely wrapping around each other's frame, not the standard greeting she usually goes with whenever they meet, but then they _are_ in class, after all, not out in the streets of Hongdae or Itaewon or wherever it is that they're both performing in. In here, they're model and employer, not friends who met each other in some local dance battle thing probably around half a decade back where Minho discovered that he could actually dance and not just sway to whatever beat he was listening to. They're supposed to be... just acquaintances or something, two people who have each other's number on their phones so they can ring each other up whenever they have to work together on a thing or two, not mentor and mentee. So he offers her a smile, holds up a thumb, then bends one knee when he feels a dull ache beginning to bloom somewhere near his left thigh. Only seconds into being naked and already the cold is getting the better of him. There's a reason why he's always preferred posing with clothes on. If modeling naked didn't pay so well, he'd be in his favorite pajamas right now.

"You're so _tense,_ though. Loosen up a bit, kid. You're not all marshmallow anymore, it's weird." Boa slaps his arm lightly, just enough to make a shiver shoot up to his nape and ease the little knots at the back of his neck. He groans. Boa is unfazed, though, alternating between squeezing his arms and shaking him up a little, too intent on making him 'loosen up a bit', so he relents, slumps just a touch, doesn't yowl when Boa _arranges_ his limbs on the table better. "Ah, there you go. The one you did earlier was just _awful._ I haven't seen you do— Don't tell me you just came from a million part-time jobs or something."

Minho laughs. "Nah, just tired," he answers, heaving a sight as the last syllable rolls off of his tongue. "Forgot I had a paper due at eight so.... I had to rush that thing. _Yes,_ I actually deadlines now. Never knew I had it in me, but _hah_ — here we are." He shrugs, then shies away when Boa motions to reach over and pinch him in the arm, slap him, give him a nice, firm shake. The truth is, she's partly right — he _did_ just come from another one of his part-time jobs, but it wasn't the actual dirty work that wore him out; it was the travel. It was getting up at ass o' clock in the morning so he could get a good enough seat and _not_ have to stand throughout his two, three-hour trip that used up all of his energy, drained him, made him feel like he was just ten seconds away from collapsing on the modeling table just feet away. He's lucky to be living close to the station, though, else he'll have to get ready at least an hour earlier, but that doesn't make burning a hole in his seat for close to three long hours feel any less like torture. "My ass hurts."

"I didn't need to know what you do for a living, Minho. But if you really want to talk about it then _at least_ wait after class, geez." Boa frowns. The corners of her eyes are still crinkled, though, irises glossy in the light, and that urges him to thin his eyes into little crescents in the subtlest apology he can offer. If Boa doesn't buy it, she doesn't say a thing, but she _does_ slap him hard enough on the arm to sting for a few sacred seconds. _Only_ for a few seconds. "First session's just gonna be thirty minutes, though, then you get to cover yourself for a bit before we do session two. You good with that?"

Minho presses his lips together into a small smile. It has been years since that dance competition back in Incheon, so many years since he'd lost to Boa's team _and then_ got picked up by the same group of people so he could start becoming more comfortable with his limbs and stop dancing like two logs on steroids, but it's still there — the magic, that little stirring sensation in his gut that feels both funny and nice whenever Boa yanks off that scary mask of hers, turning tough into tender in the blink of an eye, that _something_ he can't seem to place, can't seem to put a name to just yet.

 _"We, humans, call it a 'crush',"_ Taemin had said one time, two in the morning in Gwangalli beach, while they dragged their feet along the sand with alcohol swimming in their heads. It wasn't something they got to do a lot, not when they were desperately trying to keep their scholarships in a school system that demanded more than any normal human being could ever give, so the very few times they could catch a break, they grabbed the shit out of it. Planned the best trip they could possibly have in three, four days, tops, given a budget they could only have because of the many part-time jobs they were juggling. Taemin was shit at planning, but he was good at picking the right people to drag along. For this particular Busan trip, it was Jongin and some Jimin guy he'd just met three weeks back. Jimin was charming enough to earn a hug from Minho only an hour into their train ride to Busan after telling him all sorts of silly stories. It was the cheesiest way to win Minho's heart, but it surely did the trick. _"Now, I dunno what they call this 'butterflies in your stomach' thing in your planet, but in ours it's definitely what people call, y'know, a crush. Or a boner, if the butterflies go straight to your di—"_

 _"Eww. No. Eww."_ Minho pushed Taemin away. Or tried to, at least, but in the end all he was able to do was to lose his balance and almost send Taemin _and_ himself falling to the sand. Would've been embarrassing if Jongin and Jimin were just sauntering behind them, but they were at six feet ahead. And they were silly drunks with shitty eyesight. They couldn't possibly make out Minho and Taemin tumbling to the ground from where they were. They wouldn't make _that mistake._ _"Look: she's like an older sister to me. She's literally put me in my pajamas at least once already. Besides—"_

 _Besides, I don't even like girls,_ he'd thought of sputtering then. _Or maybe I did, before, but they don't do it for me the same way boys do. It's just— It's not the same._ And he probably would have, if his brain was ninety-nine percent alcohol and just one percent whatever else, but there was just enough space for logic to slither into his brain, jolt the cells back into life and make him remember that he was in modern Korea, not some alternate universe where people found it easy to wrap their minds around the concept of a boy liking another boy. It didn't work that way — or at least, not yet. Minho could still afford some optimism; if he needed to cross all of his fingers and toes then so be it. He was going to do exactly that.

 _Not right now, though,_ said a voice in his head as he brushed off the thought. Resigned to himself, _whatever, he won't get it,_ and kicked sand in Taemin's general direction as he said, _"Aren't you the one who actually has a shrine for her back home?"_ It was only a half truth, but the only time he'd ever been comfortable having spotlight on him was when he was dancing or posing for whichever product it was that clients needed a university student to model at that time. So shift the spotlight to Taemin, it was. Taemin. The kid dealt better with all the lights on him, after all. _"Hey, Taemin— Hey, I know you have this big Altar of Boa at home, I know you do! Come back—"_

"Yeah, it's fine, no worries. I got to sleep in the train, anyway, so I'm good." He presses his lips together into a tight smile. _Liar,_ hums a voice in his head, but the brushes that off even before it can finish. It's one thing for his senses to register the dull ache in his limbs, the little jolts of pain shooting up his nape from all the awkward sleeping positions he's done over time. One of these days, he's going to have to slow down, but—

Minho arches his eyebrows when he catches someone looking in his direction. He should be accustomed to this already, receiving curious gazes, discerning stares, some of them lustful but most gratefully just appreciative, but something about the way the other man's eyes blow wide at the eye contact makes his insides do a funny lurch. Something about the way the man goes rigid for a few seconds before turning into a tomato, a bright shade of red blooming on his cheeks, makes his chest feel tight — but in a good way. In a strangely good way. And something about the way the man quickly drops his gaze to what he's not supposed to be breaking — Minho isn't sure what it is, but he _does_ catch the guy beside him mouthing something along the lines of, _You're gonna crush your charcoal, Kibummie. At least do it on your own stuff and not mine, geez_ — makes a funny tickle crawl up his throat, knocking at the back of his teeth until he can let it out in a laugh.

 _I'm good,_ he thinks to himself as he shares one last look with Boa before taking a deep breath. He risks one last glance at the man, this 'Kibummie', feet away, and snorts when he sees him fumble with his art materials. His cheeks feel warm. _Better than I've felt in a long, long time._


End file.
